


Ocean of Debris

by Batsutousai



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode s01e23-24 The Woman - Heroine, F/F, Hate Sex, Rough Sex, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsutousai/pseuds/Batsutousai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thinking to protect Sherlock from further harm at Moriarty's hand, Joan lets herself be drawn into the criminal's web in a way she never could have expected.</p><p>SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE FINALE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ocean of Debris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Runic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runic/gifts).



> **Disclaim Her:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by CBS and Robert Doherty. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> **A/N:** This is _entirely_ Runic's fault. She was watching the season finale and insisted that she needed Moriarty/Watson hate sex. Which quickly turned into 'Bats totally wants to write Moriarty/Watson hate sex, yes she does'. Bats did much shoving of fingers into her ears and singing super loudly, but the bunnies still got in. XP
> 
> **This is so full of spoilers for the finale, it's not even remotely funny. If you haven't seen it yet, back out now and come back later.**
> 
> This hasn't seen a beta. I'll probably look it over again in a week or two and cry over the dozen errors I find before reposting it without them. Fair warning.

Joan was just getting comfortable with her place in Sherlock's sphere, when Irene had come slamming in, sending everything toppling about in a manner that was, frankly, terrifying. 

She knew what Gregson and Bell and the others at the station thought, that she was _jealous_ of the interloper coming in and ruining any chance that Joan might have had in sleeping with her housemate. And, sure, she was maybe a little jealous of the attention he was turning on Irene, but not for any form of _romantic_ reasons. Joan honestly had no interest in sleeping with Sherlock, God, _no_. But anyone would feel a little bereft when their teacher/friend/housemate suddenly turned every bit of his attention on another after so very long with it focussed almost entirely on them. 

So there was some jealousy, sure, but it was mostly concern for him, because Irene was the _ultimate_ trigger for him, and he brushed off every show of her concern. Which, sure, sparked a lot of anger. Anger at him for brushing her off, anger at Irene for being the cause of all the trouble, anger at Moriarty for putting them in this spot, anger at Joan herself for feeling angry at Irene, who was defenceless and the victim in all of this. 

She'd channelled her anger into finding Moriarty, told herself she could deal with Sherlock once Irene was safe. 

And then, oh, _and then_.

Irene Adler was Moriarty. Sherlock was back to his spastic hunt for his nemesis, and as much as a part of Joan knew he needed a break, most of her was just too glad to see him back to his old self to start an argument she was certain to lose. 

Joan had found the address in the bathroom after they'd found out about the kidnapped woman. She knew it had been left for Sherlock, a distraction to keep him from furthering his hunt, and so Joan had pocketed it. 

After Sherlock had left to set up his fake overdosing, Joan pulled the address back out. He hadn't wanted her in the brownstone or the station, but he hadn't specified otherwise. And, with all that training he'd been giving her, it wasn't hard to slip her police detail. (She made a mental note to apologise to Gregson later.) 

Moriarty was waiting for her, and a moment's surprise crossed her face when Joan rounded the corner. "Well," she said in that British drawl that sounded so much more perfect, so much more _grating_ than Sherlock's ever had, "this is an unexpected surprise." 

"Surprise _this_ ," Joan snarled and swung her handbag, weighed down with a brick she'd picked up on her way over, at Moriarty's head. 

The blonde woman smoothly ducked the swing, bringing up a lamp from the table next to her for the bag to wrap around, then yanked it from Joan's grasp. 

Joan followed the bag, jumping bodily on the woman and overbalancing the whole chair so it crashed over backwards. The lamp and bag went flying, bulb shattering, and Joan enjoyed a moment of victory, hands around Moriarty's neck, before the other woman used her lower body and arms to throw Joan over her head, into the wall. 

Joan groaned as she hit, head spinning. "Oh, I _knew_ there must be a reason Sherlock is keeping you," Moriarty spat, deftly twisting out of the chair and reaching down to grab Joan's dark hair. "Here I thought it was just because you're _pretty_."

Joan grabbed for the hand in her hair as it tugged her up, and tried kicking out as soon as she was upright enough to manage it, eyes stinging with the pain. "If you think there's _anything_ sexual between us–" she started. 

Moriarty laughed and pressed forward, their bodies perfectly aligned. "Oh, _no_ , my dear Watson. You are very much not Sherlock's type; you're far too slow." 

Joan spat in her pretty face. 

Moriarty laughed again, head thrown back for a moment before she quieted, turning bright blue eyes back on Joan. The hand that had still been tugging on her hair finally let go, sliding gently down the side of Joan's face. "Do you know, Watson, what it is to dance with the devil?" 

Alarm bells blared in Joan's mind, the ones that would have held her back before Sherlock Holmes. But now, after him, those same alarms just made her lean in to Moriarty's touch, dig one hand into her shoulder from the back, pulling her closer. "I live with Sherlock Holmes," she breathed. 

Moriarty's lips curled, pleased and violent. "So you do," she whispered and then her lips were on Joan's, hard and unforgiving, teeth digging in to Joan's bottom lip like she intended to bite off and chunk and swallow it down. 

Joan moved her hand from Moriarty's shoulder to her hair and, taking a handful, yanked hard until she pulled away. Then Joan turned her abused mouth on the blonde's throat, sinking her teeth in just a little too close to her jugular and thrilling at the way Moriarty gasped and grabbed at her hair again. 

"That's....right," Moriarty gasped out, digging her perfect nails into Joan's waist – Joan spared a brief wonder for when the other's hand had gotten under her shirt. "This is as...close as you'll...ever get to suh–sleeping with...with Sh-Sherlo–"

"Why," Joan snarled, tugging hard on Moriarty's hair, "does _everyone_ assume I'm trying to climb into Sherlock's bed?" 

Moriarty grinned at her, wide and a little crazy. "Because he's _beautiful_ ," she breathed, and Joan knew she'd been right when she'd insisted that the blonde loved Sherlock. 

"Some of us are capable of resisting the urge to sleep with every pretty thing–"

"Every pretty _man_ ," Moriarty interrupted, and pushed Joan back into the wall hard enough that she had the breath knocked from her and stars flared behind her eyelids. "It's about _gender_ , dear Watson." 

" _Is it_?" Joan hissed, because Moriarty had initiated this, this....whatever this was. 

Moriarty's smile was as beautiful as it was terrifying. "I owe you clothing," she said, seemingly from nowhere. Before Joan could formulate a response to that, a knife was cold against her abdomen, and she held _very_ still as it sliced up, through her too-long shirt and bra. 

When the knife caught on Joan's necklace, she finally moved, grabbing it and throwing it away from them both, because any weapon one of them could use, the other could as well, and Joan would rather be defenceless than allow Moriarty a weapon. 

Moriarty's eyes followed the blade for a moment, but then her hands were spreading Joan's ruined clothing, cupping her breasts and squeezing too hard. 

Joan grabbed for the blonde's shirt in retaliation, pulling hard enough to send buttons flying, scattering like a broken pill bottle across the hardwood floor. Moriarty wore no bra, and she _howled_ when Joan grabbed for her nipples, twisting and pulling at them because she _needed_ to punish the woman, needed to see her scream and fall apart like Sherlock had when he'd thought he had Irene's killer. 

They shed their clothing like lovers desperate for contact, but there was nothing but fury and hatred and a man between them, broken by one, repaired by the other. Teeth and nails uncovering blood from any stretch of skin that could be reached, until they were both maps of red lines, writhing on the ground next to the fallen chair, fingers a little too rough inside each other. 

"I'll see you sitting in squalor behind bars," Joan breathed as she felt her climax approach, so much stronger than she was used to, spurred on by anger as it was. 

Moriarty licked along her jaw to her ear. "No, my dear Watson," she whispered, voice like the sweetest poison, "I shall have you and Sherlock on your knees, a matching set, until you are so broken, you no longer know your own names." 

Joan screamed with her release, wet and warm and edging on too painful, and Moriarty shuddered against her, teeth sinking into Joan's shoulder so hard, she knew it would ache for days. 

It should have seemed odd, after everything was said and done, that Moriarty politely offered Joan replacement clothing and untangled the lamp and bag in nothing but an open robe. 

Joan's phone rang just before Moriarty handed the bag back over, having removed the brick with a disturbing sort of smile. "Hello," she answered, not even bothering to look at the caller id, because Joan _knew_ who it was, knew why he was calling. 

Moriarty's phone buzzed on the table, and she turned towards it with a frown as Gregson said, "Holmes overdosed. Detective Bell is going with him to the hospital now." 

"I'm on my way," Joan gasped out, and she didn't have to fake the fear that made her voice tremble, because a part of her was still afraid that Sherlock would actually inject himself, wouldn't just put it on for the show. 

Moriarty met her eyes as Joan hung up, something almost like concern flashing in them before she covered it up with a scathing smirk. "So weak, that man. It's a wonder I ever let myself–"

Joan grabbed Moriarty by her hair and pulled her forward. "Don't kid yourself," she suggested, tore her bag from the blonde's hands, then tore from the apartment.

Later, after Moriarty had been taken away in cuffs, when Sherlock asked about the marks on her neck and jaw, and her change of clothing, Joan would feel shame for what had happened between them. But, too, she would have the memory of the pure _want_ that had burned in Moriarty's eyes when she'd realised who had bested her, and she would know exactly why Sherlock had so enjoyed his tryst with that clever little blonde and her secret smile.

..


End file.
